My heart is made from gold (and forgiveness seems too bold)
by ibuzoo
Summary: She can feel herself dying but then he extends his hand and she takes it without thinking.


**My heart is made from gold (and forgiveness seems too bold)**

**Prompt: **Childhood

**Rating: **T

**Warnings: **implied character death / resurrection / dark magic / first love

**Word count: **1408

**Summary: **She can feel herself dying but then he extends his hand and she takes it without thinking.

**A/N: **This was one of the hardest prompts to fill to be honest. Hermione's Childhood and POV during her ages from 8 to nearly 16, because for me, teenage starts with 16 years.

**Disclaimer: **This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros. Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

* * *

**o.**

Life is finite; sooner or later it ends.

**i.**

Hermione's life is a brief flicker in a cloak, a veil that covers darkness and eternal shadows. In time, there may be other who are similar to her, echoes of her wonder, but never with the same thirst, never with the same talent that runs trough her veins.

**ii.**

_(this is about the girl she wishes she was, she wishes she is, she wishes she will be)_

**iii.**

His hands are soaked deep red, blood sticking to his skin like thousands of lives (millions) but he doesn't care, doesn't even think twice and she's a child, innocent and pure but oh, her hands are red too, the blood soaking her skin, the creases of her hand.

She kisses his palms, her lips soft, warm.

This isn't about absolution.

**iv.**

He looks like Death and the air around her simply freezes, the room suddenly painfully cold, but as she blinks, thinks, she knows he can't be what she mistook him for. She's a child, barely eight but Death would not seek her out with a dangerous glint in his eyes, a predator living behind these dark orbs, a vivid flare gleaming in the grey and she feels the stirring of something in her gut.

There are no sounds around her anymore, everything muted, unintelligible, her breath freezing in her lungs and she feels her eyes widen in awe.

His lips quirk up, amused, and hers tighten, barely.

_(she can feel her puerile innocence vanishing between her eyes)_

**v.**

She can feel herself dying but then he extends his hand and she takes it without thinking.

**vi.**

Hermione doesn't know him, doesn't need to, sees him with the eyes of an infant, eyes clear and strong and how many times have her parents told her that she only sees what she wants to see.

_(it may safe her life in the long run)_

He saved her life, spared it and one day, assuming that she's still alive, he will come to collect the debt she's still into, she can only give and he, he will take.

_(take take take)_

This is the price she pays for cheating death, some broken part of her is laughing on the inside, taunts her ignorance, her naivety and she pushes the nausea away, holds her ground.

**vii.**

She's twelve and she almost forgot about him (did she really?), the nagging conscience at the back of her head, the scratching and clawing on her surface. It's lunch break and she hides herself in the library again, behind giant volumes of books that almost cover her whole frame and she knows the time to begin repayment is starting when she spots a tall man in his early twenties, eyes the same grey that saved her years ago.

He speaks, she listens.

**viii.**

_(there are cadavers in his infinite closet,the dead that linger just as the corpses that clings to her for the sake of remembering)_

**ix.**

His name is Tom and he takes her to his meetings with his Knights, calls them followers and teaches her things about immortality, teaches her how to use the magic that flows in her veins to create things far beyond her knowledge.

_(but she wants to know, wants to know it all)_

There's something blossoming in her chest, her first love, she can't help but fall for the man and she starts watching him from afar, memorizes the way his shoulders move under his shirt, how his hips sway, his fingers snap and change rapidly when he orders his friends - no followers - around, the way he can command attention of a room without saying a word. One moment he charms even the grumpiest sourpuss, his words a song, a lullaby on his lips and the next he can clear it with enough chill to remind her of Scandinavian winters.

She wants to know how he guards himself so well, how much he sacrificed for this, the cold facade, talent and brilliance guiding him, deceiving so many people at once. Part of her knows the answer, doesn't want to dig til the bottom of the hole anymore, she does it every day, he deceives, she deceives and when they look at each other, nothing remains except for unrevealed truths across the room.

Their eyes meet and she senses that there's something dark waiting under his surface.

**x.**

He visits her more often, meets up with her after class, when she needs a break from writing and Harry and Ron who're still immature, not adult enough for her liking and she wants to grow up so desperately, doesn't want to steal some glances from afar anymore.

She's thirteen and winter rages in London, snow and ice covering streets and buildings and she dimly notes the feeling of his slender hands on her shoulder, the power radiating from them, makes sure the coat is in place, brushes away the wrinkles, tugs to make sure everything looks the way it should, looks the way he wants it.

His eyes are clear and sharp when she looks up but his thoughts are a thousand miles away, the weight of an immortal being reflecting in grey orbs and perhaps she'll be immortal too, perhaps, perhaps.

_(she notices that eternity has a sweet sound in her mouth with Tom at her side)_

**xi.**

In his eyes, she has seen the look of a man who has burned the world to keep himself alive, will do so again without a second thought if it means to assure his immortality, and she agrees, knows that she would to the same, wants to tell him this but she doesn't say a thing, brushes her hand over his shoulder, feels the fabric of his suit sink into her palm.

Then she pulls away without looking back.

_(the names on his list are a bit longer than hers, but the end result will be the same)_

**xii.**

Ron and Harry begin to joke that they're dating, _he's far too old Hermione, he's a man and not a boy,_ and she tries not to let it bother her, because people when bored, will try and satisfy their curiosity in any way they can.

She knows it isn't true.

But it doesn't mean there isn't a bit of truth to the statement.

**xiii.**

Most of the time, they talk about ordinary things, like old English literature, Latin poetry and he tells her what she needs to know, not more, nor less but it annoys her so much cause she wants to know a lot more, wants to explore volumes and encyclopedias of long forgotten myths, magic.

She steals books about dark magic, Hogwart's Restricted Section her new home, her sanctuary, practices and masters spells nobody else her age did before.

_(just him, just him)_

He doesn't approve all of the times but there's a glint in his eyes telling her to dare, to challenge him and Hermione is eager to prove herself worthy.

There's one time she doesn't get the spell quite right and her knees give out as the last syllables of the spell leave her throat, head woozy, heart stops and there's nothing anymore, pure void.

Someone catches her, and someone lifts her gently, like she weighs nothing at all.

_(she breathes again)_

**xiv.**

She's in debt again and she isn't sure she minds.

**xv.**

A blink of an eye and she's nearly sixteen, her childhood almost ending and she feels like a teen but not a woman, not yet. She's attracted to him, imagines the way his lips would feel on his, the way his fingers would caress her skin, and she knows he's waiting for her cause there was no woman around him, no relationship on his arms since she was here, since she was his.

_(she would never tell him though)_

There's something tantalizing about the man concealed within layers of cloth, and she dreams about pealing one piece after another until there's nothing left but smooth, marble skin, a warm chest, or maybe something else, something rougher.

She knows that physical attraction is not enough to form a relationship, not with him, their relation far too deep, and it's not what she wants, not corporal.

Physical attraction doesn't always equal emotional stability, and she knows that's not what she seeks in him, nor what she needs.

**xvi.**

She won't tell Tom.

_(that is one step too far)_


End file.
